"It isn't the prices, Mrs. Jardine—it's the quantity you have been ordering. Are you running a hotel?"
"No," I said. "Not that I know of."
"Well," he answered. "Look here; here's three gallons of olive-oil you've ordered in one week."
"Three gallons!" I gasped. "You mean three bottles."
"No, ma'am! Three gallons!"
"Who ordered it?"
"That there old woman of yours,—the one that cusses so."
"You mean Mary?" I asked, incredulously.
"I don't know what her name is, but I know her tongue when I hear it.
A white-haired old lady with specs."
"That must be Mary," I mused.